Underground
by colossalray
Summary: AU. Ten years following the (slightly rehashed) events of "A Death In The Family", Jason returns to life, mostly unharmed...but he isn't the only one. Something dark is stirring in Gotham, and Batman will need all the help he can get, even if he won't admit it.
1. Chapter 1

Oh man, I really just need to find an idea and stick with it.

Seriously, I have about ten half-finished fics saved on my tablet just begging me for a chance buit i'm like 'Nope' and start a new one.

Because i'm a timewasting dick like that.

So anyway, here's the beginning of an AU where Jason was not reanimated six months after his death. Instead, it happened 10 years later, and he wasn't the only one effected. Something dark is stirring in Gotham, and Batman could use all the help he can get. Contains Preboot and New 52 canon events, though these events may be skewed by the 'AU' factoring in this fic and my own decision to add a bit of reality to where there previously was not outside of headcanons i've seen on Tumblr. Which is basically my excuse for not having read every issue ever.

Warning: Contains graphic descriptions of injury that some readers may find disturbing. Also contains swearing because the author and the characters are potty-mouths. Some "English" spellings, because I'm Scottish, not American. Deal with it. At least I used your terminology. No official pairings, so ship what you want. Spoilers for Batman Inc #8, but if you haven't read that shit yet or at the very least know roughly what happens...well, shame on you.

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Chapter I

I don't know how to describe it. For once, despite my excellent coaching which required that I eloquently speak English before most children attend their first day of school, I find myself completely incapable of constructing the sentences required to fully encapsulate the experience.

But basically, one moment I was watching that lumbering invulnerable abomination that shared my DNA plunge his sword into my chest, the next, i'm lying on my back in complete darkness.

I try not to panic at the abrupt change of scenery and accompanying vertigo, instead focusing my mind into assessing the situation. I feel something - somethings!- crawling on my chest, under my clothes, through my hair, on my face, and it reminds me of the psychological torture I underwent by the Joker's hand what seemed like a mere month ago. I find myself wondering if everything I had just experienced, if my mother's attack on Gotham and my own becoming the proud owner of a cow that lives in a pimped out cave was all just a hallucination. What if this dark, squirming bath of insects had always been reality, and the last month was just a bizarrre coping mechanism? It seems unlikely. Nobody imagines a false reality just as terrible as the reality they are escaping from. That would defeat the purpose.

Epithany concluded, I set back to work in assessing my surroundings. I'm in total darkness, lying down on a soft material, likely silk. I'm in a container with a low lid, lined in a similar if not identical material as that against which I rest. Judging by the feel of it, along with the darkness and the insects, I conclude that I am buried in a coffin. Probably a very expensive one, if my father has anything to do with it. This makes escape seem a little more distant as I remember just how difficult it's going to be to punch through the strong wood. Then I remember that insects have managed to break through, so surely the wood must have weakened with time.

Time.

Just how long had I been down there? I wondered, feeling at my hips for my utility belt, realising with a start that it isn't there. It seemed that I was wearing a burial suit, my pants being held up by a much more simple belt, with no attachments to be found.

I remove the belt swiftly, dragging it up to tear away the material lining of my container. Next, I take off my shirt and shift it upwards and pull it over my head, fastening the collar above it. Believe it or not, this would act to prevent me from suffocating on the dirt which would rain down on top of me once I broke free from my confines.

But before I began work on my great escape, I decided to try something a little less hands on; screaming and crying for help like a little bitch in the hopes that someone would hear me.

I bang my flat bare hands against the bared wood. "BATMAN!" I call, not too loud in an attempt to keep my breath even. If I begin to hyperventiliate, i'll use up the limited oxygen in the coffin and suffocate.

"FATHER! GRAYSON! HELP, PLEASE!" I raise my voice louder, because fuck it, if i'm 6 feet under, they're gonna need all the help they can hearing me.

I punch the wood, hearing the compacted dirt shift above it. I try again, the other hand, back to the first, keep alternating, don't tire. Every few punches are punctuated with my cries for help.I claw at the wood with my nails, feel them begin to chip away. My knuckles are bleeding and bruised. I feel tears begin to sting in my eyes, threatening to dribble onto my cheeks. But I do not sob; those heaving breaths would mean my end.

In between blows, I hear it. The moving of dirt above me as somebody digs. Not very effectively, I imagine they haven't bothered to get a shovel, not that I can blame them, so I push myself harder, hoping to meet them halfway.

Bursting with hope, I forget to brace myself for the falling dirt. It collapses onto me in one huge wave, knocking me back, and it takes all my strength to push against it, to pull my head and arms out of my confines before I drown.

I feel them, two hands, forming tight grips just above my elbows. I recognise the hold. It's one Richard taught me, one used by aerial acrobats such as himself, as it is more stable than simply holding hands. I reciprocate the grasp, feeling hope blossom deep within my chest. I am not going to die. Richard Grayson would never allow it.

I allow myself to be dragged out of the ground, holding my breath and closing my eyes tight, hopefully helping by pushing against the ever-shifting soil with my feet.

When I finally reach the surface, the fresh air is so welcome I hardly even notice when my saviour's grip shifts to hoist me by the armpits to pull the rest of my body out from the unforgiving ground. I collapse onto him, realising abruptly this person is a lot thinner and probably a bit shorter than the Grayson I know. Could it be Drake? I wondered. If it were, I decided right there and then that I would never be rude to him again.

The small, skinny man had shifted so that I was sitting in his lap, and began unbuttoning the soiled shirt protecting my face.

I felt raindrops pounding against me from all angles, and found myself looking into the muddied face of a complete stranger.

It was a teenager, just a little younger than Drake, as I last saw him. Even in the dark, I could tell he had the manditory blue eyes of a Bruce Wayne son (though i'm sure it's a coincidence.) His soaking dark hair sat limp on his filthy face, and he too wore a barely distinguishable suit. The left sleeve was bulging, as though it had been overstuffed with fluff at a build-a-bear workshop. He seemed to be smiling, and while strange, he was ultimately oh-so-familiar, though I couldn't quite place him.

I'm still panting for oxygen when he starts petting my hair, and in my muddled state I may have leaned into the touch instead of immediately jerking away.

"Shhh" he whispered. "It's alright, kid. We're alright."

When i've finally calmed myself down enough to process everything, I pull away from his grip, climbing to my feet. I fold my arms. "Who are you? Why did you save me?" I demand.

The teen stands up too and jerks his head behind him at the grave beside mine. "There's your answer."

I look over at the grave. It looked like mine did, like it had been burrowed out off, disturbed dirt spluttered in all directions. I recognised this grave. Father had taken me to visit it twice. Once on the grave-resident's birthday, August, the other time on the aniversary of his death, April.

I was looking at the grave of my long deceased step-brother; Jason Todd.

"That's your grave?" My voice was an octave higher with hysteria. This entire situation was too weird.

He nods.

"You're Jason Todd?"

He nods again.

"But that's impossible! You're dead! You were blown up! You were missing most of the left side of your body!"

He winces, taking his left hand around himself in a half-self hug. I realised that's why his left arm looked so odd. It really was stuffed - to give the appearance of a limb, and a new arm had grown within it, filling the sleeve to maximum capacity.

"Yeah, that'll happen when you're ten feet away from a bomb." He mumbles. I decide that I believe him. After all, I just climbed out of my own grave...it doesn't seem like too much of a stretch, if i'm honest. Besides, last I remembered, I had a sword shaped hole in my chest.

"So, who are you then, kiddo? I don't remember any kids called Damian...y'know, 'cept the one from The Omen." I presume he read my headstone.

I roll my eyes. Of course he doesn't. He died nearly 6 years before I moved in with my father. "I am Damian Wayne, son of Bruce Wayne and Talia Al Ghul." His eyes widen. I reduce my voice to a whisper, so that only he could possibly hear. "And between you and me, I am also the fifth person to wear the mantle of Robin."

Todd had gone from surprised to downright horrified in seconds. "That bastard replaced me? With who? Are they dead too?" His voice sounded broken, like a mirror crushed underfoot. I think he might've started crying had we not been intterupted by the sound of my father's employed graveyard guards screaming at us.

"Oi! You're not supposed t'be here!" I can see two men, one rather portly, the other very tall and skinny with a horsey face running toward us. Todd does a complete 180 degree turn on his heel towards the voices. When he sees the two men, he visibly pales, suddenly tense like a startled cat.

"Shit!" he screeches, and then gathers up the sheer audacity to grab me by the arm and bolt away from them - in the opposite direction from Wayne manor.

"What are you doing? My father is in the other direction!" and damn, is this guy fast. It doesn't help that I am much shorter, meaning I have to put in extra effort to keep up with his long strides.

"Don't care. You want arrested? 'sides, it's the middle of the night. He wont be home."

I realise he's right and curse my naivity. "Of course. He's on patrol."

We run in silence the rest of the way to the graveyard gates, and we keep going for a whole block once we've left before we stop to catch our breaths'.

By then, we're both soaked through, shivvering in the cold. We lean up against a the wall of a convenience store, panting, bloody hands resting on our knees, backs curved, heads down, gasping like fish.

After a minute, I relax, clutching the stitch in my side as Todd sinks to his ass and sits on the ground. He's laughing quietly, his crooked teeth making his smile seem very juvenile in an inexplicable way. I know perfectly well that Jason Todd is no child, and had not been for a long, long time. Nor was I. Nobody in our bizarre family, that I knew of, had ever been allowed a 'proper' childhood. Grayson by far had the best one, from what I know, but even then, it leaves a lot to be desired.

"This is so crazy" he whispers.

"You can say that again." I agree.

I sink down to sit beside him, listening to the sounds of the city. Neither of us say anything, and I wonder what he's thinking about.

Minutes pass by before either of us makes a sound. It's Todd that breaks it. "Right, we need to get our shit together. There's no way Al' will let us on his nice clean floors smelling like wormshit and rotting flesh, dripping muddy water everywhere."

His disorderly smile is infectious. "Also, I need to get the fuck out of this monkey suit. It doesn't fit even a little bit."

He starts inspecting his jacket and seems to find something in an inside pocket. In a whisper, I hear him mutter "Barbie, I love you" and then suddenly he pulls out a very crushed packet of cigarettes and a lighter with a woman in a bikini on it. He kisses both. I try to ignore him.

"What do you suggest we do then, Todd? I know you're used to living as a scourge of society, but I most definitely am not!"

He's looking at me incredilously, laughing while he lights his likely very stale cigarette. Why would he be buried with cigarettes, anyway? Is it some sort of custom i'm not familiar with?

"You're a snotty brat kid, you know that? I like it. But you're gonna have to drop the attitude if you wanna last the single night I expect you to on the streets. You happen to be a lucky little shit, considering who you wound up with. Not only did I save your ass, but I also happen to know what i'm doing and, as someone who is always prepared, I had a contingency plan for when Bruce decided he'd finally had enough of my shit and kicked me out. I have small stashes of food, clothes and money nearby here. All we have to do is hope that in the 6+ years i've been six feet under, they haven't moved."

He blows out the smoke in rings and smirks at me. "You up for that?"

"TT. I have done a lot worse than engage in a wild goose chase as means of survival."

"Good, then we should get along swimmingly." He punctuates his point with a long draw from his cancer-stick. He points the pack at me. "Want one?"

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"So, where have you hidden these 'stashes' of yours?" I growl as we march back towards Wayne Manor grounds. We had ran further than once thought, and by then the adrenaline from our escape and chase had gone. I was left feeling more drained than I had in a long time. My stomache was growling incessently, and I was beginning to notice the agony in my hands. I was missing fingernails and my knuckles were swollen to the point where, had they not been attached to the end of my wrists, I might not have recognised them as my hands. Todd hadn't fared much better - If anything, he looked even worse than I did.

Despite the freezing cold temperature, he had stripped himself of his jacket, complaining that he couldn't handle the smell of his own corpse on it for another minute. I had felt the same way, but I daren't say anything in fear that I would offend my ally. So far he had proven useful, after all.

"Ugh, I buried them, i'm afraid. Safest place for 'em." He bit his lip and looked down as though ashamed by the revelation.

"TT. And you remember where they are?" I querie, watching as he leads me to a long strip of grass.

"Yep. I have a great memory. Practically eiditec. Now we just have to hope they haven't been spoiled by being underground so long. After all, I was expecting to get kicked out sooner rather than later. I didn't plan this far ahead." He mutters the last few sentences, but I could still pick them out. He stops dead still over a certain spot, then jumps into the air, landing directly on top of it. He repeats the action, then, satisfied with the result, turns to me. "Right here. This is the spot I buried twenty bucks, a can of Pepsi and a clean T shirt in a lunchbox. There are more around here somewhere...I kept them pretty close together." His smile is back.

He bends down beside the spot and begins digging his remaining fingernails into the ground, prying the mud and grass apart with his fingers, face contorted in pain. I move to join him, but he shoves me back briefly with a firm hand.

"I got this." He says. I decide to let the stubborn fool carry on.

It takes him a while, but finally Todd manages to pry a tin Superman lunchbox out of the ground. He cheers victoriously as he opens it, producing the promised soda, blue tshirt and money. He tucks the money into his pants pocket and tosses the soda at me. "Here. After so long, it probably tastes pretty rank, but I know for sure you need it." I catch the drink easily, but hand it back to him. "No, you earned it." I'm a liar. I just didn't want to drink a soda which had been buried under ground for countless years.

"Then we'll share it." He counters, handing over the clean shirt to me. "It'll drown you, and it'll be way out of style right now, but anythings better than THAT." he says, eyes focused on the filthy button up shirt I had returned to my torso. I accept the shirt, and change into it as quickly as I can. It had stopped raining, but it was still bitterly cold outside. I pull the filthy blazer back on top of it, deciding warmth was better than cleanliness.

Todd was right: the shirt was much too large, sitting loose on my body and long enough to qualify as a dress. Todd had watched me change, eyes wider than canyons.

"Kid, those are some killer scars." I had seen what he meant. Not only was a large amount of lumpy scar tissue crossing my chest as a result of my autopsy, but evidence remainded of the sword wound in my chest, and the arrows which had lodged themselves in my skin. "Somebody sure did a number on you."

I nod. The memory is still fresh as a daisy in my mind. My not-brother throwing Richard through the glass. The battle. My mothers soldiers opening fire on me from the balconies above. It had not been particularly pleasant by any means.

"Yes, they did."

His expression softens as he steps closer to me, offering a comforting arm, which I vehemently rejected. He doesn't look offended, more like concerned. "Want to talk about it?"

I round on him with a dark glare. "Why should you care what happened to me?"

Todd bites his lip and looks away, thinking up an answer. "Well, umm...you already know what happened to me, right? And I'm curious. And uhh...sometimes it helps to talk about traumatic experiences and stuff? I don't know man, whichever is the right answer." I find his embarrassment oddly endearing.

"Very well." I say at last, watching as his attention returns to my face. "It all started with my mother. She had started up a criminal organisation known as Leviathan..."

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By the time Todd had located and unearthed three more emergancy stashes, I had finished my dramatic retelling of my last few months on earth. I had been careful to leave out my experiences with the Joker, for fear that the name may trigger my new companion. During my spiel we had managed to unearth another ninety American dollars, two hooded sweatshirts and a change of pants for Todd. A flashlight, a packet of AA batteries, cigarettes, a small amount of marijuana and a flithy green backpack had also been unearthed. Upon discovery of the illegal substance, I interrupted myself to set into disapproving vigilante mode, but Todd's comeback knocked me back a peg. Apparently smoking pot is not nearly as severe an offense as murder, which I had prevously confessed to the enthralled teen.

We decided then that we had enough resources to pay for a night in a motel and a cheap breakfast, and so we began the seven mile walk to the nearest floozy lodging. By the time that we finally arrive, Todd had visibly exhausted. I too was weary from walking and now the pain in my hands had turned to a burning agony. Throughout the walk, on numerous occasions, Todd had offered to carry me, but each time I had refused. Entering the lobby, Todd and I were observed critically by the receptionist - A heavy, middle aged woman with bright red lipstick and a very obvious cleavage. I caught Todd looking and promptly assulted his instep, reminding him to make eye contact with the bottle-blonde as he payed for our room.

As he handed her the money, the woman saw his hands and narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Y'allright, boys?" she croaked.

When Todd just stares dumbly, I stomp on his instep again, hard enough that he yelps. "Oh, yeah. Yeah! We're all good, right bro?"

In an effort to keep up appearances, I force myself to replicate his accent when I speak in confirmation.

The woman passes Todd the room key, and with a hand hovering by my shoulder, Todd leads me towards the hall down which he had been directed; toward our lodgings.

He unlocks the door, and we both stumble in. I collapse onto one of the single beds, shedding the filthy clothes in favour of my underwear and the Tshirt Todd had bestowed onto me. Todd however immediately starts the shower.

While he rinses the grime from his skin and hair, I contemplate calling home. What would I say? Who would answer? Would I even know them?

Instead, I ignore the phone and turn on the television, finding the local news station and settling down. I watch for fifteen minutes before I find out the date...It is 3 years and six months since I last remember...making me technically fourteen years old, and Todd twenty-five.

Other than that, the local news stories have proven completely uninteresting...just they typical Gotham crime, nothing to be up in arms about.

I can distantly hear Todd singing "Smooth Criminal" over the shower jets, and briefly imagine him moonwalking around the disgusting bathroom. I decide to let my attention drift from the television and onto the subtle nuances of Todd's singing. While flat in places, his tone is pleasant enough. I would never tell him that though.

When the song finishes, the silence is shortlived. He begins gargling the water, likely spitting it into the drain.

"You disgust me, Todd!" I call to him. I doubt he hears me over the sound of the shower, as he doesn't react, instead bursting into a song about a bicycle.

By the end of the song, I hear the water turn off, and am shortly joined by a fresh faced Jason Todd, his wavy black hair slicked flat against his forhead and the nape of his neck. It's only now that I truly recognise him as the boy in the photographs around the manor...he looks completely different when not covered from head to toe in all kinds of filth.

The skin of his torso is bizarre looking: Like mine, Todd's chest is marred by autopsy scars, his more like thick grooves than lumpy lines. On the right side of his body, the skin looks normal - slightly freckled, tone like a fading tan. The middle of his torso is a mixture of scar tissue, likely where the most severe burns were, and soft, snow-pale baby skin. The left side is the palest, and the arm looks thinner, with little -to-no muscle definition. I conclude that this is the part of his body which regrew spontaneously.

I'm pulled out of my assessment by the sound of his voice, urging me back into reality.

"Your turn," he says, drying behind his ear with a hand towel while his other hand holds the larger one around his hips.

"There's only one towel left, so don't waste it." He adds.

"I wouldn't dream of it." I reply as I push past him into the bathroom. I'm thankful for the the steam clouded mirror - I know that if I had seen my reflection I likely would have been horrified. I start up the shower, and after shedding my clothes, immerse myself in the scalding hot jets of water.

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When I re-emerge into the bedroom, Todd is sitting up in bed watching the news and smoking.

"Hey, Damian. You missed it, but we were on the news. Sorta." Curious, I return to my bed. Unlike Todd I had the decency to get dressed while still in the bathroom, though I would much rather not having to do so. The clothes, after all, were dirty, while I no longer was. I tuck my feet into the blankets and bring my knees up to rest my chin on them, propping up the pillow to lean against.

"Is that so?" I say mildly.

"Yup." Todd confirms, muting the television and turning over to meet my eyes as he talks to me. "Vikki Vale apparently was on-scene when the guards got back to report our disturbed gravesite to 'Mr Wayne'. They think we've been stolen. Bruce is offering a reward for anyone who can return our bodies, but I can tell that's just for good publicity. He doesn't think were stolen."

I narrow my eyes at him. He angles his head so that he's not exhaling smoke in my face. "What makes you say that, Todd?"

He sniggers. "Well, he's the Batman, duh. He can tell the difference between a coffin that's been broken into and one that's been broken out of. And the way he was talking and looking at the camera, it was like he was speaking right to us; begging us to come home. He's looking really old, by the way." He punctuates the statement with another deep breath of his poison.

As I process the information, I'm hit with the sudden realisation that I must share.

'Ahah! So I was right! Father was at the manor with Vale! He wasn't on patrol at all"

Todd rolls his yes. "Good for you, kid. You sure proved me wrong?" How is it that this guy can make a victory seem like a failure? I must endeavour to learn his secret...it will surely come in handy at a later date.

I watch Todd's slightly shaky hand in silence as he brings the greatly diminished cigarette back to his lips.

"You would think that following your experiences in Ethiopia you would be a lot more reluctant around open flames." I comment, watching his hand as he flicks his ash into the glass tray on his bedside.

"Please, don't," he mumbles with a shudder. "I have an addiction, I can't help it." I wonder how someone who was so young could develop such a dependency. Though technically twenty-five, Todd still retains his fifteen year old mind and body, and the vice has clearly been one he's had a good deal before that. I also wonder what possessed my father to allow it to continue.

When I happen to glance back at Todd, I see that he too is lost in thought. Suddenly, he breaks the silence with his crooked grin. "Hey, d'ya think when we show up tommorow morning, Bruce will give US the reward, for returning our own bodies 'safely to his custody'?"

I roll my eyes. "I sincerely doubt it. We are far more likely to be subject to an onslaught of hugs from Grayson and perhaps a few from father, a drilling from a curious Drake..."

Todd raises his hands as a clear sign that I should stop talking so that he could interrupt. "Woah there! We're going to get harrassed by a duck with questions? What?" I lean over to punch his arm. It hurt me a lot more than it did him, but I try not to let on.

"Not an actual drake, you imbecile. Timothy Drake. Or Drake-Wayne, as he seems to now prefer." I say with a sigh.

"Hoozat?" He says as he crushes the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray.

"The third Robin." The simple statement seems to immediately install a previously unseen rage in the expression of my companion. He looks down at his hands, gritting his teeth while he picks at the peeling skin around the a momement, he manages to grind out a question: "What's he like?"

I think about my answer for a while. "Fairly competant, particularly with computers, but completely inferior to me."

Then Todd is laughing again. "Big headed much, little bird?"

"Hardly." I say, getting up to turn off the television. "We should sleep, Todd. We have a likely-torturous family reunion ahead of us. We'd do well to be alert for it."

"Alright kid. I'm beat anyway." He says, turning off the light. We proceed in darkness back to our separate beds. I pull the blankets up close to my chin, trying to ignore the lumpiness of the mattress. I lay on my side, turned away from Todd.

"Night, Damian" He whispers into the darkness.

"Goodnight, Todd." I reply.

I don't expect him to contine talking. I really ought to have. "Hey, by the way, why do you call me that?"

I glance over my shoulder at him. "Call you what?"

"Todd." Surely the answer should be obvious?

"Because that's your name."

"Yeah, but it's my last name. Most people call each other by their first name. You don't hear me callin' you 'Wayne', d'ya?"

"No." I agree. "But I am not 'Most People'"

There's humour and lethargy in Todd's voice when he speaks again. "You're one weird kid." He yawns,and realising that neither of us has more to say, we both settle into a drowsiness which eventually turns into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for your support of this story. It really means a lot to me to see people enjoy my work. I'm so sorry it has taken me so long to update this fic, but in between school, end of year examinations, working on my art folio, two of my dogs dying and spending a fortnight in Egypt - I just haven't had time to write! But I'm back in my homeland now, it's the summer holidays, and I'm quite likely to get bored. Some here comes the antidote, in the form of a long awaited second chapter of Underground.

I kind of changed where I was going with this from the original plan a bit, so now I'm thinking I'm going to need to use multiple narrators to tell this story, and so this chapter will be one of many Jason chapters.

Thank you very much for your patience. I hope it pays off.

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Chapter II - Jason

Night terrors were neither unexpected nor uncommon for me. Even before the incident in Ethiopia, some nights I'd still wake up howling and shaking, drenched in cold sweat and trying my damnedest not to cry. (I was never very good at that whole not-crying thing, by the way). It's pretty common knowledge that I'd been through more than one nightmare-inducing incident in my life, such as coming home after a hard night of pick-pocketing wallets to find my mom (Catherine, not Sheila) cold and dead on the floor and a puddle of her own excrement. Not to mention, given my line of work, I was quite commonly subject to a few doses of Fear Gas, just to add chemical stimulants into the mix. So, I wasn't all that surprised to find myself bolt upright in bed at 5 AM shaking and whimpering like a crack baby. At first the tired blue eyes staring at me scared the shit out of me, until I remembered the bizarre events of that night. Damian was standing at my bedside, looking more annoyed than concerned.

"Are you okay?" He asks. I take a few deep breaths and wipe the sweat off my brow before I answer.

"Yeah yeah. I'm fine. Go back to sleep." I near-enough whisper. Damian needs no further telling. With a grumble that sounds like "Good" the kid switches off the light again and flops back onto the mattress, falling back asleep instantly. Or at least – I think he does. It's hard to tell with Bat-trained people, I guess, considering the fact that we can fake it perfectly and all that. I figure Damian has no reason to fake sleep, so I let the idea slide. My brain was whirring at a mile-a-minute, and I knew I needed to calm down. Wringing my still aching hands all the way I stumbled to the bathroom and locked myself in. I soaked my face in cold water, then examined myself in the mirror a while. I realised my teeth looked different – clean and white but not the perfectly straight, blindingly white fake ones Bruce had paid for. I figure it had something to do with my shattered teeth – they'd grown in weird after the Joker had his go at rattling a crowbar in my mouth.

My hair looked different too. Yeah, it was still curly and about the same length as it always is, but I swear to god, in the lighting of the bathroom, I could see grey hairs. Grey hairs! Even if I were as old as I should be, I'd STILL be too young to have grey hairs. Fuck that. It mostly gathered in a clump right at the hairline above my right eye, but there were a few kicking around at the side of my head too. So not fair.

I wonder why my teeth and hair had grown back at all. You don't grow when you're dead, right? I know there's that myth about hair and nails growing, but that's really just your skin shrinking as you decompose, I think. And judging by the smell of those clothes I was wearing, I had definitely been doing plenty of that. Honestly, I've smelt some pretty awful things, but that really took first prize.

So as I'm sitting on the toilet lid in my underwear shaking like a leaf and rubbing at my eyes to try and remove the Joker's face from where it's burned into the retinas, I try to regulate my breathing. Before that I'd been panting as though my lungs were still collapsed, my heart still fluttering like a hummingbird in my chest. It makes me feel a bit light headed, and I think for a moment I might be sick. But I force the notion down and struggle back into the room, the rough blue carpet like sandpaper under my bare feet. I press on, silent as I can be, and reach for the pack of smokes stashed in the bedside drawer. I take the pack into my hand, try to feel something other than shooting pain up my knuckles and numbness in my fingertips as I tighten my grip, turn on my heel, and go back to the bathroom from whence I came.

I lay down in the empty bath and smoke three in quick succession, and probably would have started a fourth had Damian not knocked on the door. He was coughing, as though enough smoke had managed to slip under the door and catch in his tiny boy lungs.

"Todd!" He splutters. "Hurry up in there!"

"Sorry!" I shout back, wafting my hand through the smoke and opening the window to let it escape. I had calmed down significantly by then, though I was still a bit shaky on my feet when I clambered out of the dry tub and unlocked the door.

Smoke leached out of the room right into the kid's disgusted face. His nose wrinkled and he turned his face away from me.

"Can you please vacate the bathroom? I want to just brush my teeth and leave this place. The less time I'm trapped with your cancer clouds, the better." At least the rude little fucker said please.

"No can do, half-pint. No brushes or paste. Looks like you're going without this morning."

"But I didn't get to brush my teeth last night and my mouth tastes terrible-" He begins, but I interrupt him.

"Welcome to my world, sunshine." He glowered at me, either not understanding what I was trying to say or just having no patience for it. I sigh.

"Alright, Damian. Don't you fret. We'll head back to the manor now and eat there, bathe with some actual soap and brush our teeth extra good." I'm not aware of how patronising I sound until he kicks me in the shin.

"We can hardly go back right now – you're not even wearing clothes." I look down at myself as though only just noticing I'm still in my underwear for the first time.

"Golly, you're right!" five minutes into a conversation with a Wayne and I'm already impersonating The Golden Boy. It's looking back on moments like these that can really make a guy hate himself.

He begins staring at me like I spontaneously turned into a goose or something.

"What?"

He narrows his eyes.

"_What_?!" I repeat.

"Aren't you going to do something about that?" He practically snarls, as though my entire existence gives him migraines

"Do something about _what_?" Damian takes a step back from me, expression sour, and gestures with both hands from the top of my head to my toes in one fluid motion.

"Oh _right"_ I reply dumbly, as Damian huffs and turns away from me. I'm so scatter brained right then it's kinda scary, and this ten year old kid treating me like an idiot really couldn't have helped less.

I follow after him and collect my sorta clean-ish pants I managed to retrieve from my stashes of 'paranoid emergency stuff' I buried when I first moved in with Bruce. I quickly throw them on and then set about finding the t-shirt I wore on top. They're too small – I had an unprecedented growth spurt since I hid them, and I used to be _really skinny, _so that comes as no surprise. But just because I can't fasten the button on the waistband of my pants doesn't mean they're not better than what I had been wearing beforehand. At least these don't smell like death.

Once dressed, with my backpack set firmly on my shoulder and the money we obtained tucked safely in an undisclosed location on my person, I move toward the door. Damian had been sitting on his bed, watching the news while he waited on me.

He flicks the TV off and crosses the room towards me. "So, apparently…" He says. "We're not the only zombies roaming Gotham, Todd."

I open the door and let him pass through before closing it behind myself. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"Since our graves were reportedly robbed, several people have checked the gravesite of their own loved ones. According to the newscaster, there have been over 10 reported thefts of child corpses. All boys aged between eleven and seventeen."

"You're ten." I point out.

"I was almost –"He pauses. "- That's hardly relevant."

"And you think they've come back from the dead like we did?"

Damian does that little tutting thing he does. "Obviously."

"I bet more came back than they think – it'll just be that some of them couldn't get out." I add.

"Don't be morbid, Todd. I'm not in the mood for it."

There's a palpable silence between us for the next few seconds. I decide to break it.

"So where do you think they went? If they were still in the graveyards when the paranoid parents where there, you'd think they'd be found."

"Perhaps they attempted to return home. They most likely wouldn't have survived the journey at that time of night."

"Now _you're_ being morbid." Damian rolls his eyes.

We settle into silence as we approach the reception desk to check out. The receptionist had fallen asleep at her post. I ring the bell, bringing her back to the land of the living with a jolt.

"Hi, sorry for waking you, but we'd like to check out, if that's okay." I tell her.

Damian stays silent at my side through the process, and doesn't open his mouth again until we're out the door.

"So, how long do you think it'll take for the media to figure out the missing dead kids of Gotham aren't so dead?" I ask him with a nudge.

"It all depends on how competent any remaining dead boys are at staying hidden."

"You don't think it could maybe be us that blows it?"

"Perhaps you, but certainly not me." He says with the ultimate confidence, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"What makes you say that?" I find it hard not to grin at him.

"I'm the son of Batman, you fool. Keeping secrets is in my blood." I snort when I laugh at him.

"Obviously not, or else you wouldn't have shouted that in the middle of the street."

Damian's face flushes and he bows his head. Some lady looks at me like' _That was cruel, crushing his dreams like that', _which makes the whole situation funnier, but I at least have the decency to stop embarrassing the poor kid by laughing at him.

"Come on, Todd. Let's hurry back to the manor before we starve ourselves back to death."

Oh my god, just the thought of eating Alfred's food made me salivate like a dog.

"Hell yeah! Race ya." A dark, cunning look comes into Damian's eyes and his smirk returns.

"You're on."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I'm sweatier than a gym junkie's jockstrap and I can taste acid in my mouth when I finally make it to the end of our almost 8-mile long sprint. I had only stopped for a break twice, and both were remarkably brief, so as soon as my feet made contact with Wayne soil, I collapsed to my knees. I hadn't eaten in ten years, damn it! I'm allowed to be easily exhausted – and to be fair, I was running pretty hard.

Damian is twenty minutes behind me, and I wait for him at the beginning of the driveway.

"Slow and steady wins the race _my ass."_ I brag when he approaches. The kid seems exhausted, though not nearly as disgustingly sweaty as I was.

He collapses down next to me, face flushed. He doesn't say anything, simply enjoying the relief from standing. A few raindrops land on our flushed faces, and we knew at any minute it'd be pouring down, but we make no effort to stand up for a few more minutes.

When Damian has finally steadied his breathing, I climb to my feet and offer to help him stand. He rejects my hand, instead getting up on his own and making a futile attempt at wiping some of the dirt off his pants.

"Let's get in before we're soaked, kid." Damian glares at me.

"Stop calling me kid." He says, but nevertheless he marches forward up the short stretch of road leading up to the manor gates. I follow after him, and just as we get there the rain has begun coming down full pelt.

"Best give them some warning, huh? Don't want to give Alfred a heart attack." I say as I press down on the buzzer.

"Definitely not. Who else would do my laundry?" I let out a startled laugh.

"You are _terrible, _Damian" I mutter, just as the gate swings open.

We progress in silence toward the front door, and I can't help but feel a little nervous. I mean, I'd been gone for so long, who knows what had changed? Will these new people Damian mentioned accept me?

I decide to take a moment to prepare myself for the onslaught of people and reactions and numerous exclamations of "You're alive!" before knocking. Apparently I took too long, because Damian got that irritated little look on his face, growled "oh for god's sake Todd get a grip" and knocked for me. I'm not sure why it was my job to knock in the first place, but apparently it really pissed the kid off that I wasn't doing it.

We don't have to wait long before the door is opened and we're met with an aging Alfred. Well, everyone is aging all the time, but nowadays he's showing it a lot more than he would have, say, fifty years ago. He has a lot less hair, and what is left of it has gone completely white – ten years ago it was still pretty dark, for the most part. The worry lines in his forehead had deepened significantly, too. I wonder how much of that was my fault.

His usual stoicism faltered as he laid eyes on us, his jaw dropping to let a small "My word!" slip out. But good ol' Alfred manages to quickly snap back, straightening his posture and letting his mouth slip into a small but welcoming smile.

"Pennyworth." Damian acknowledges with a nod.

I find myself grinning. "Hey Al'."

"Hello young masters. I must say – It has been a long time since anyone has seen you darken our doorstep."

"No kidding." I agree as Alfred steps back to allow us entry into the manor. I don't hesitate in hugging the old man – I'd missed him in the relatively short time I'd been away from him – only a week or so in my own head – and I hoped that after all this time, he'd missed me too.

"Oh my" Alfred says, but I can tell he's not surprised. He's quick to return the hug, and his grip is tight and comforting. I burrow my face into his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Alfred." I mumble. He reaches up with one hand to pet my wet hair.

"Don't be silly, young sir. You have nothing to apologise for." But I shake my head and dig my face in deeper. "I'm sorry I didn't say goodbye, Al. I should have said goodbye."

Alfred loosens his grip on me and I pull away, taking the hint. I try to manage a smile when he looks at me sadly.

"Yes, well, you're here now, aren't you? No harm done." He says, without his usual confidence, voice even cracking a little. I can tell he's lying. I can see it in his eyes – they just scream _so much harm done you can't even begin to comprehend it_. I feel so guilty I could just scream. But I don't, because that would be stupid.

I look over my shoulder at Damian, who hasn't said a word throughout that whole almost-teary exchange. He hasn't moved either, just stood there and watched, as though waiting patiently for something – and while I've only known the kid for less than a day, I know that is unusual. The kid's about as patient as I am classy.

I step aside to let him get closer to Alfred. The boy does, moving briskly to stand at the old man's feet.

"I trust my pets were kept in good health during my absence?" He says, tone demanding.

"Why – yes, of course." Alfred confirms. This makes Damian crack a little smile.

"Good. Thank you, Pennyworth." And with that he gives the old butler a short but firm hug. And then he steps away. Just like that.


End file.
